Chapter 3

Again, I completely missed the satisfied look on her face when she hobbled onto the patio as I took the meat off the grill.

“Can I do anything?” she asked.

“Test the potatoes,” I said, pointing to the contraption I had that helped bake a potato in half the time. It was made of metal and had wide, flat projections going upwards that pressed deep into the tuber. The metal conducted heat into the center of the potato while the outside cooked by radiant heat.

She picked up the paring knife I’d used to cut open the meat when I checked it, and poked it into a potato.

“They’re done,” she said. “Where are the hot pads?”

“You can’t carry that thing with one hand,” I said. “Go sit down. I’ll take care of all of this.”

She crutched back into the house, displaying remarkable agility after being on crutches for such a short time. Athletes seem to be able to adapt to such things quicker than most of the rest of us.

When I got in, she hadn’t sat down. She was at the counter. She’d taken the green beans out of the microwave and was in the process of removing the safety plastic barrier from the top of the new tub of cottage cheese. The trash was ten feet away, so I walked up next to her and plucked the plastic out of her hand.

“I told you to sit down,” I said, slapping her on the ass with my free hand. I winced, mentally, because I slapped that tight ass a little harder than I’d intended. I expected her to object vociferously. She objected ... but not anywhere near vociferously.

“Oh. Ouch,” she said, hamming it up. “I’m going to cry!”

“I’ll give you something to cry about if you keep being stubborn,” I threatened.

She turned to me and the crutches fell noisily to the floor as she put her arms around my neck. She arched her back and pressed those amazing, soft, hot breasts against my chest.

“And what would that be, you terrible ... mean ... old ... pervert? You gonna spank me again?”

I saw the smoky look in her eyes, and heard the seductive note in her voice.

I once read an article where some “expert” or another said that every woman wants to be spanked at some time in her life. Not as actual punishment, but as a way of submitting to a man she’s excited about. I thought it was bullshit at the time. Now that assumption wavered a bit. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew, little girl,” I warned, suddenly nervous that I was in the act of biting off more than I could chew.

“Bite what?” she asked, coquettishly, and completely unafraid. She was in full tease mode now. For the first time I wondered how far she would go. Before this I had assumed she was just curious, and wanted to experiment a little bit. I decided maybe a shot of reality might wake her up.

“I think you know,” I said, dropping the plastic on the counter and using both hands to grab her buns. I pulled her against my groin.

Again, she closed her eyes.

“That’s so hot,” she whispered.

Then she opened her eyes and, before I could react, reached up on tiptoes to kiss me.

There are kisses ... and then there are kisses!!

I got one of the latter. No boys might have seen her precious teen pussy, but they had kissed those lips. That was obvious. She kissed like a pro and her lips transmitted the kind of passion that had me erect within seconds. And, since my hands were still on her ass, pulling her against me, that erection sprouted right where it counted.

Reality didn’t scare her at all.

While she thrust her tongue into my mouth, she ground her loins against mine.

She pulled her face away from mine, but made no attempt to separate anything else from me.

“You don’t kiss much, do you,” she observed, dryly.

“What?” I was dazed. I admit it.

“You’re supposed to kiss me back,” she said.

“No I’m not,” I sighed. But I was thinking of much more than kissing.

“Yes you are,” she said.

And she kissed me again.

My baser instincts kicked in.

I kissed her back.

And we more or less dry humped the crap out of each other. It was astonishing.

I’ll be honest. Had she pulled me to the bedroom, right then, I would have fucked her brains out. One of the thoughts I had during that kiss was that while no boy had seen her pussy, that didn’t mean no boy had ever slid his adolescent little prick into it. She was acting like she’d done this dozens of times, and much more. So I wouldn’t have asked any questions, and would have been astounded to find that she was a virgin.

But that didn’t happen, because Caitlin was a female. And females don’t necessarily react the same way males do in that situation. To Caitlin, this was romance, and she wanted it to last. Caitlin, it seems, was very capable of engaging in delayed gratification.

She pushed away from me and said, “I’m so horny I could explode. But I can’t do anything about it now. Let’s eat before everything gets cold.”

One of my favorite movie scenes is from the 1963 movie in which a character named Tom Jones and a woman he met on the highway have dinner at a country inn. It’s set in the seventeen hundreds, or thereabouts. If you pull up You Tube and put “Tom Jones fine dining” in the search box, the first video on the list is that scene.

That scene was replayed, in many ways during supper that night.

It started as if it were any normal meal. But being horny caused Caitlin to behave in an aggressive way. By that, I mean that, instead of cutting up her steak, she picked it up with both hands and bit into it, smearing her lips and part of her cheeks with the juices. She wiped her mouth with the back of one hand, just like Joyce Redman did in that scene.

Then she did it again, and pink juices began running down her chin, threatening to drip onto the Old Navy T shirt she was wearing. As if on cue, she put the meat down on her plate and picked up her napkin, dabbing at her chin. She cleaned each finger by sucking on it. I say “as if on cue” because she was staring at me the entire time she did all this.

“I don’t want to get my shirt stained,” she said, casually.

And, just as casually, she reached to pull the bottom of the shirt upwards. There was no doubt but that she was about to take it off. I watched the creamy skin of her belly appear before my startled eyes. I was frozen, five or six green beans impaled on the tines of my fork, which hung, suspended between the plate and my open mouth.

Then her plain, white, utilitarian bra appeared, and I sighed inside because I was denied the view of her breasts. I never even gave thought to the fact that, previously that day, she’d gone around sans bra, but had, for some reason, decided to put one back on for dinner. As it turned out, it was purely for show, because she had planned what she was going to do intentionally.

And that was to do what amounted to a slow striptease ... sort of ... in front of me during supper.

The shirt caught under her pony tail, and she had to maneuver the cloth over her head and then extract the pony tail. That gave me all sorts of time to look at her upper torso. The bra covered more skin than one of her bikini tops would have, but that made no difference whatsoever to my prick, which sat up, trying to look at what my eyes could now see.

She tossed the shirt aside and looked at her plate, and then down at her bra. Then she looked up at me.

“I don’t want to get my bra stained either,” she said, calmly.

She reached behind her in that way that makes it look like the woman has Gumby arms and my frozen aspect relaxed enough for me to pull in enough air in a gasp that would keep me conscious for another half minute.

The sound of elastic being released ... the sag of stiff, white cotton on her chest ... the shrugging motion that dislodged bra straps carelessly, and the distraction of the bra being tossed on top of the shirt. My eyes followed that bra, for some reason, but then snapped back to Caitlin so quickly I’m surprised my retinas didn’t detach.

And there they were.

Just as I could not adequately describe the sensations of viewing her pussy, it’s difficult to describe this situation too. Each time I try to write it down, all I can do is see them in my mind’s eye. But I’ll try.

She sat upright, as if she were trying to practice good posture. She didn’t arch her chest, or anything like that. Her arms were straight down, but I couldn’t see if her hands were hanging, or her elbows were bent and her hands suspended beneath the table. I didn’t really care about her hands, just then.

Her pale orbs were set off by tan lines around them, the darker skin seeming to frame what had been hidden before. Her nipples were no longer the pale pink of callow youth, but were darker, as if lipstick had been applied. The cones of yesteryear had vanished, or been inflated by round balloons. And the amorphous shape of her twelve-year-old nipples had also disappeared, to be replaced by cylindrical shaped nubbins that already looked like they’d fed a baby. Those nipples sat on areolas that made it appear as if the nipples were being presented on a plate, ready to be tasted, or feasted from. There was no hint of sag, and yet each breast looked like it must weigh ten pounds.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breaking my concentration. “Is this bothering you?”

I had to swallow twice before I could answer. I also had to breathe out and then back in.

“No, I’m fine,” I croaked.

“Good,” she said.

Then she picked up her meat again and made a mess of her cheeks, chin, hands, and chest. She worked me like a pro, eschewing the napkin and trying to scoop up the juices she dripped with her hands. All she did, of course, was make a mess of her upper chest and, eventually, the breasts themselves.

She made noises of approval as she ate. She ate everything with her fingers, including the baked potato, and each green bean, which was slipped between her lips as she stared at me. She didn’t eat like a pig. It wasn’t like that at all. It was more like she ate with abandon, that the tasting and enjoyment of the food was paramount, and that nothing else mattered.

As for me, I was so engrossed with watching her, that I ate on auto pilot. What that means is that I ate gracefully, with my fork, and did everything the way Emily Post would have suggested I should. We were opposite sides of a coin.

Except that my side and her side were not touching in the middle.

Finally, she leaned back. Her arms dropped, and I was presented with the unbroken view of her brown-smeared breasts. She sighed, and put one hand over her bare stomach.

“That was so good,” she said, almost in a moan.

She looked down at herself.

“I made a mess,” she commented.

“You did,” I agreed.

“I need to clean up,” she said.

“You do,” I agreed.

“I can’t stand up. My ankle’s not ready for that and my lap is full of bits and pieces.” She looked up. “Will you help me?”

I almost laughed, but restrained it. It would have been a laugh of joy at her antics, but I didn’t want her to think I was laughing at her, if you know what I mean.

“I made dessert,” I said.

“Oh?”

I got up and went to the fridge, where I extracted two short drinking glasses filled with chilled chocolate pudding.

“Mmmm, pudding,” she purred. “My favorite.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s why I made it.”

“You’re so good to me,” she sighed.

“No I’m not,” I said, approaching her.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Why not?”

“Because this is your dessert. My dessert is you. I’m going to eat you up,” I growled.

She lifted both hands and made them tremble like aspen leaves in a stiff breeze.

“Ooooo, now I’m so scared!” she whined.

I knelt beside her and placed both glasses on the table. Then, ignoring the spoon, I hooked a finger in one of them and pulled out a dollop of pudding.

I didn’t ask. I just smeared it all over her left breast, which was the one closest to me. She shivered at the chill, but her nipple was already as erect as it was going to get.

Then I cleaned up the mess with my mouth.

She was groaning by the time I finished. It took a long time, and I used only my tongue to remove all that meat juice and the repeated doses of pudding that ended up on her flesh. I didn’t look at the clock, but I’m betting it took me twenty or thirty minutes. Part of that was because while she had smeared juice everywhere, I kept going back to her nipples. Eventually I moved her back, away from the table, and got between her thighs, so I could have access to all parts of her front.

Initially, I think she might have had an orgasm, maybe a tiny little one, the kind that comes from doing something new, something you’ve dreamed of, but never done before. The shock of the novelty can enhance the feeling to a level that you can never quite repeat after that.

It was obvious she liked it. Then loved it. And finally, craved it. This was evidenced by the fact that every time I cleaned a nipple and went elsewhere to lick and suck at skin that tasted faintly of steak, she’d smear more pudding on the nipple.

Imagine a 3-D printer, that moves back and forth, slowly building up some object. My face was like that, and I imagined I had created her breasts, transforming them from twelve-year-old cones, to the round, plump beauties they now were.

Eventually she ran out of pudding.

I kept sucking her nipples anyway.

And eventually, her belly and ribs were clean. Well ... more or less clean.

And after that I paid attention only to her nipples.

And that’s when she groaned.

Or maybe she groaned because I started sliding my fingertips up into the loose legs of the oversized cargo shorts she was wearing. You know the kind I mean, that have pockets everywhere and are made of thick cotton. They seemed to be in style these days, and everyone got a size so big they had to be held on with a belt.